


Rapture, sweet rapture (won't you put your hands on me)

by queerly_it_is



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the stringy mesh of his overactive brain cells, Stiles is sure there must be memories of what it was like to not have a totally possessive creeper with a leather fixation for an adopted brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapture, sweet rapture (won't you put your hands on me)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the stop-drop-howl porn challenge on LiveJournal.

Somewhere in the stringy mesh of his overactive brain cells, Stiles is sure there must be memories of what it was like to not have a totally possessive creeper with a leather fixation for an adopted brother.

He knows there was a point before his dad decided Derek needed ‘positive influences’ after the rest of his family died in the fire he just barely got away from; that there haven’t always been two beds in his room or Derek’s monochromatic outfits occupying an unfair amount of their closet space. That there was a time when Stiles’ family looked a lot different, and fit a different definition of the word.

It’s just that when he tries to pull those memories up there’s always a negative space, a silhouette turned inside-out. It’s different to the one his mom left, that’s an emptiness that aches with how full it really is, heavy and bright and painful, where everything before Derek is kind of _unfinished_.

Or maybe Stiles just feels like _he_ was unfinished. Doesn’t matter how complicated or beautiful a jigsaw is, without the last piece it’s all just cardboard.

Whatever, he’s given up questioning it now. Derek is a kind of an unstoppable force all by himself, and Stiles is nowhere close to being an immovable object.

| |

Stiles will admit he’s not the easiest person in the world to share a bathroom with. Derek will say that’s an understatement.

But it’s become kind of an excuse, like a whole bunch of other things have, for Derek to 'help out' by prodding him into the shower.

And okay, he’s not stupid or oblivious; he knows this isn’t something they should be doing, for more reasons than Stiles has fingers and toes to count. But then Derek’s hands are on his shoulders and his chest is pressing against Stiles’ back, and every one of those reasons slips down the drain between the suds and the flow of water, turns less solid than the steam he’s breathing.

“You were taking too long,” Derek mutters, and Stiles thinks it was meant to be a gripe like _you drank all the milk_ or _your wet towel is on my bed again, Stiles._ But it’s pretty well diluted by the way he’s already got his nose pressed to the crown of Stiles’ head, hands sliding down onto Stiles’ sides and making absolutely no moves towards the soap.

Stiles tips his head forward, and Derek’s lips find the back of his neck, just gentle enough that they can pretend it never happened.

“You have a test today,” Derek murmurs, his palms on Stiles’ hips now, between the water and his skin, a layer of Derek like a barrier around him.

“English,” Stiles says, looking down at his feet and the darker hair on Derek’s legs where they’re parallel with his own.

Derek backs away enough to grab the shampoo, the _click_ of the cap breaking the tension like a bubble popping. “Did you study?”

“Sure I did,” Stiles insists, working the shampoo Derek squeezes into his hand across his head, even though he could go without and it wouldn’t make much difference. Not like he’s got any real amount of hair, but trying telling Derek that.

Derek steps close again, his arms casting shadows along the tile while he lathers his own hair. “Did you study for the _test_?”

Stiles can’t help the grin. “Yeah, yeah, I did what I was told. This time. Even though it was boring.”

“Good,” Derek mutters, stooping just enough to smudge the word against the side of Stiles’ neck, running his nose to the curve of his shoulder. Which kind of makes all the cramming he’d done last night worth it, in Stiles’ opinion.

When Derek turns them around, trading places under the spray, Stiles watches him while his eyes are closed so he can rinse his head. His hair’s deep black and stuck down to his forehead, a hint of stubble along his jaw where he’s never quite clean-shaven, and Stiles’ eyes follow the hair down his chest to his navel. His dick’s hard, dark with blood at the head and curving up, just like Stiles’, but that’s another thing they’re pretending not to be aware of.

Stiles shuts his eyes and ignores the eager itch in his fingers, the rhythm of his pulse between his legs.

| |

Derek’s car is awesome. This is a fact that Stiles will argue in favour of with anyone, including his dad who says it’s too fast and not fuel efficient enough, especially for a high school student. But Derek bought it with his own money, the only big purchase he’s ever made with the insurance money Stiles knows he hates looking at. So it’s not exactly an imposition that Derek insists on driving him to school. Insists on driving him everywhere, really. Stiles jokes that Derek has some deep mistrust of public transport, but he’s pretty sure he just doesn’t trust anyone else not to crash and give Stiles whiplash or whatever.

Scott meets them outside, and mirrors Derek’s awkward nod before he turns with Stiles and heads up the steps into the school. The sad part is Derek actually likes Scott, no matter how many times Stiles has tried to convince Scott of that, he just really sucks at showing it. But Scott’s Stiles best friend, so he’s not giving up on getting him and Derek to get along, even if sometimes he wants to grow his hair out just so he can pull it all out again in frustration.

Who knows, maybe one day they’ll graduate to full sentences. Stiles can dream.

This part of the school routine always gets a little awkward, because Stiles is a freshman and Derek’s a senior, and Derek always gets extra loom-y when it’s time for them to head their separate ways. Stiles would call it separation anxiety, or some other term that’s on an overly colourful factsheet on the wall of the guidance counsellor’s office, except he doesn’t think there’s really a standard definition for whatever Derek’s got going on inside his head. He’s just _Derek_ , with his own unique brand of complications.

“Okay, see you after last period,” Stiles says, because he knows that even though Derek has last period free, he’s still gonna wait around for Stiles instead of letting him take the bus.

Derek steps closer, staying _just_ far enough from Stiles that he doesn’t step on his toes or start radiating suspicious vibes for everybody passing in the hall to see. It’s not like they aren’t used to Derek and Stiles shadowing each other at this point anyway, their mutual orbit and special kind of gravity constantly on display.

Stiles is opening his mouth to say – well, _something_ , but then Derek’s shrugging out of his jacket and Stiles is sort of just left with his mouth half open and Scott probably frowning at the silent double act they’re performing.

“Oh come on, seriously?” he asks, voice embarrassingly high.

Derek holds the jacket out a little further, raises the Eyebrow of Doom, and Stiles twitches into motion, taking it and pulling it on like if he does it fast enough nobody’ll notice.

“There,” he says, pulling it tighter over it shoulders and not being in any way distracted by the warmth Derek’s body left in the lining or the smell of the soap that’s giving him flashbacks to that morning in the shower. “Happy now?”

Derek gives him a considering look, drags it out just to fuck with Stiles’ nerves, then nods and leans in to straighten one of the sleeves where it’s bunched against Stiles’ forearm. Not his fault Derek’s ahead of him on the growth spurt front, and Stiles is gonna be merciless when he’s finally the tallest.

“Might as well just pee on my leg and get it over with,” Stiles says, sticking his hands into the pockets so he doesn’t feel so much like a kid swamped in a bed sheet.

“Don’t tempt me,” Derek says with a mocking twist to his mouth that he totally copied from Stiles. “And don’t take it off. I’ll see you at _lunch_ ,” he adds in a no-nonsense way that only Stiles’ dad has ever proven immune to.

Then he’s stepping around Stiles with a calculatingly casual slap to his shoulder, slinking down the hallway without a second glance, parting whole clumps of people effortlessly like a shoal of fish moving around a shark.

“Is he getting weirder?” Scott asks, watching Derek turn a corner at the end of the hall, a crease between his eyebrows. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure he’s getting weirder.”

Stiles scoffs and shrugs, the movement waving more unique Derek smells up into his face like a cloud of pollen. “He’s just responding to my natural awesomeness,” he says, grinning when Scott’s face cracks into a smile.

“Yeah, or maybe he’s planning to like, kidnap you or something and I’ll end up seeing your face on a milk carton.”

“Aw, don’t worry buddy,” Stiles says, slinging an arm over Scott’s shoulders, the end of Derek’s sleeve brushing just past his knuckles as they head for class. “I’d make sure he took you along too.”

| |

Big surprise, spending hours wearing a jacket that smells like Derek and somehow even _feels_ like Derek is basically torture, minus the thumbscrews and blood-curdling screams.

He makes it through his English test _somehow_ , fingers tightly wrapped around the end of one of the sleeves while he scribbles down his answers with the other.

And if he wings the last couple of questions so he can be excused early and go jerk off in the bathroom, his nose pressed into the collar of Derek’s jacket while his hand works hard enough to make the tendons ache, then he’ll never admit to it.

| |

As little maintenance as his hair can get by on, Stiles still has to keep it that way.

He’s just done plugging in the electric razor he’d bought for himself after realising it was pointless paying someone else to do it all the time, and when his eyes flick back up to the mirror, Derek’s taken the place of all the empty shadow in the doorway.

“Jeez,” Stiles mutters, managing to move the razor away before his startled jerk makes him shave an eyebrow off or something. “You ever heard of knocking?” Like that’s something Derek’s ever cared about. Stiles’ brother has major boundary issues, okay.

“The door was open,” Derek says, stepping further into the bathroom like that illustrates his point. Stiles tries to fight back the flush that’s climbing down his neck and spreading across his chest, sitting hot low down on his cheeks. It’s just—anyone who lives with Derek would get kind of a complex about being pale and on the skinny side of lean, that’s all. It’s totally reasonable, even if he wasn’t currently shirtless and wearing a pair of boxers with smiley faces on them and socks that he’s just realised are two different colours.

“Yeah well, I’m kinda busy,” he finally says, less intense than he’d wanted to, because Derek has that effect. He waves the razor in his hand like Derek somehow missed it, grits his teeth a little and turns back to the mirror.

His cunning plan of pretending Derek isn’t standing there sort of falls apart when Derek steps close enough for Stiles to feel the material of his unfairly tight grey tank against his back.

“Let me help,” Derek says, quiet like an urging nudge inside Stiles’ head, and he can’t stop his eyes going to Derek’s face in the mirror. He’s looking down from that shrinking couple of inches worth of height between them, and before Stiles knows it he’s handing the razor over just to try and get that soft, almost helpless look off Derek’s face. Derek should never look helpless; it unravels too many parts of Stiles’ worldview.

Derek clicks the razor on, his other hand resting firm on Stiles’ shoulder like he’d be stupid enough to wriggle around during this, no matter how much he’s feeling like a butterfly pinned in one of those creepy glass cases.

He shuts his eyes when Derek runs the buzzing metal from the base of his skull to the crown of his head, lets the steady vibration run right into the centre of him. He’s never really been that good at explaining why he enjoys this part so much, how it makes him feel like the one still point in a blinding carousel with too much noise, the eye of his own storm. He wonders if Derek gets it, the way he seems to get all the rest of Stiles like there’s a manual he just refuses to share.

Strands and loose hairs fall onto the skin of Stiles’ shoulders, the top of his chest, floats down to the sink and the counter he’s almost leaning against, and he lets it all fade into the background, ploughed over by the electric hum as Derek moves like he’s done this a thousand times before.

It’s pretty ironic really. Derek hates having his own hair cut like he hates few other things. Stiles has gone with him the last few times, and he can still see Derek’s knuckles turning white against the arms of the barber’s chair, the way he practically grinds his teeth to powder, how his eyes track Stiles in the big round mirror like he’s looking for an escape route. He’s never asked, but Stiles thinks Derek just doesn’t like people he doesn’t know touching him, it’s not like he’s really physical with anyone apart from Stiles, and maybe the occasional back-patting hug with his dad when they don’t just stick with shoulder squeezes and nods from across the kitchen.

Derek wordlessly turns him with the hand on his shoulder, and Stiles doesn’t even open his eyes, just trusts and moves with the pressure of Derek’s fingers. The hand goes to the side of his face then, warm and dry and so _still_ with the contrast of the razor against his scalp, and it’s not—Derek’s just making sure he doesn’t move too much, that’s all. He probably isn’t thinking about Stiles’ blush under his fingers or the way all this contact is kind of sending signals to Stiles’ lower half that probably aren’t the greatest idea.

Not that Stiles is thinking about that either. He’s actually trying _really_ hard not to think about that right now.

“Almost done,” he hears Derek say, and yeah Stiles is kind of squirming, but he’s just glad Derek took that as him sucking at staying still for any length of time, instead of the fact that he’s chubbing up in his shorts and trying not to brush against the close solidness of Derek’s leg. He’s never wished for healthy impulse control harder in his life.

The room is too quiet when Derek kills the razor and sets it down on the counter, reaching around Stiles to do it while his other hand brushes all the hair onto the floor. The hard swipes of Derek’s hand over his chest and neck and back _seriously_ aren’t helping.

“Th-thanks,” he says when he figures he can’t justify keeping his eyes closed any more, nervously licking at his lips and trying to look anywhere that isn’t also a part of Derek.

Except then Derek’s got both hands on Stiles’ face, framing him like the close-up moment in every cheesy romance flick ever, and Stiles swallows his breath and clenches his toes in his socks, looking at the total absorbed concentration on Derek’s face. He’s waiting for something he’s too scared to want and doesn’t think he can ask for. Something he couldn’t name if he had every word in every dictionary balanced on the tip of his tongue.

Derek turns his head to one side then the other, Stiles playing the obedient marionette for all he’s worth.

He knows he makes a sound when both of Derek’s hands quickly circle his neck, going to the back of his head then running up and back down again, against the grain of the buzz cut, more hair falling that Derek brushes away. Maybe Derek didn’t hear it, maybe it only sounded like something closely related to a moan inside Stiles’ head.

Or maybe Derek heard it and knows just how much of an awkward boner Stiles is sporting, and he’s just blanking it all out through the typical sheer power of brotherly generosity.

Stiles honesty can’t decide which option he hates the most.

“You’re okay,” Derek says, always too aware of the messy tangle of darting thoughts that run through Stiles’ head at any one moment.

“If you say so,” Stiles says without meaning to.

Derek brings his hands back to the sides of Stiles’ neck. “You are,” he insists, thumbs pressing at the corners of Stiles’ jaw in a way that makes his mouth wanna fall open. And _there’s_ a thought he didn’t need. “You always are.”

Stiles swallows and hears the sound it makes, feels the motion of his throat against Derek’s hands, feels like he’s made of smoke held behind thin glass, just the slightest chip…

“I—you too, y’know,” he says, meaning to shrug but not able to, not under the touch and look he’s getting. “You’re—yeah.”

Something softens in the edges of Derek’s eyes, and his lips spread into a tiny smile. Stiles is kind of awestruck by it, in a way that’s not new at all, but always manages to feel like it is.

Derek slides a hand down the curve of Stiles’ jaw, towards his chin, and the pad of his thumb presses gently against Stiles’ mouth. If you could make a whisper into a touch, Stiles thinks it’d feel like this, a lot of meaning in too much softness, a promise written on his skin.

He lets himself smile, and Derek’s thumb follows the shape.

| |

Stiles jerks off in his bed that night, on his back with the sheets kicked and shoved down to ribbons around his ankles. Because Derek couldn’t see it otherwise. That’s how this goes now, apparently, all the issues about this _thing_ they’re dancing around getting switched off along with the lights.

The air is painted on his skin in shades of blue-black like bruises, slick with sweat and uneven with the swollen pebbling of his nipples, the heave of his chest that he can’t control. And always, always, there’s two points of heat raking across him; Derek’s eyes tracking everything he does.

Stiles’ fingers run up to his slit, where’s he leaking and sticky and burning hot. He’s come once already, but he hadn’t even gone soft before the feel of Derek _watching_ and the sound of his breathing – fast and ragged and so loud once Stiles noticed it – wormed under his skin and got him going again. Like now that he _can_ he’s trying to vent all the pent-up frustration.

He doesn’t know if Derek’s jerking off too, can’t make himself voice the question, but he wants him to be. He wants Derek to be getting off on Stiles making himself come a second time, just so Derek can see him do it. There’s nothing he wouldn’t  - _doesn’t_ \- want to show Derek. Not ever.

His left hand runs up his belly, the cling of baby fat and the dip before his ribs, the hair he can feel under his fingers that’s not as thick or dark as Derek’s. Not yet, anyway. He rolls a nipple between his fingers and chews on his bottom lip trying to stay quiet, and he could swear blind that his nipples did nothing for him before he noticed that Derek’s focus turned even more laser-like when he did it, that stare sending sharp prickles along his skin like he’s in the dark of the woods, waiting for something out of a nightmare to melt out of shadow and take him. _Wishing_ it would.

Tipping his head back into the pillow, he can feel the cooling damp of the sweat from his neck, turns his head enough to make the bristles of his hair scrape like static, imagines Derek’s fingers there again, moving him where he wants Stiles to be while his hand twists and his fingers press tighter under the head of his dick.

He’s oversensitive, his thighs crooked open at the knee and his toes gripping at the sheets, bolts of hot, shivering energy spreading up the arch of his back when he squeezes his grip and fucks jaggedly into the fist he’s made.

The orgasm doesn’t take long to build, pressure in his hips and head, blood wheeling around his locked-up body like a pinwheel nailed to a post, frantic and glowing, sparks showering behind his clenched eyelids, leaving inverted trails of colour behind.

Over the high and choked sound he barely swallows back, he hears Derek grunt when come streaks up in white, sticky rows onto Stiles’ skin, slips between his fingers and strings them together, coats the places he’s already wet.

His body falls flat to the bed, air sucked into his chest and meshing with all the heat inside him until he expects to breathe out fog, purple spots dancing in the infinite nothing between his eyes and the ceiling.

When he turns his head and tries to blink away the gloom, he can just make out Derek’s face, the shape of his body, eyes so hot it’s almost painful.

He smiles, even if it’s hazy and half hidden by the pillow and his bottom lip is patterned with swollen teeth marks that beat along with his pulse. He thinks he sees Derek smile back.

| |

One day coming home from school, Derek kills the engine, and then they’re sat in the soft, cushiony silence, looking up at the house. It’d be almost nice, if something wasn’t so obviously _up_ with Derek, has been for a while now.

“Are you-,” Stiles starts, and then stops himself. Derek hates being asked if he’s okay, whether he is or not. Especially when he’s not.

Derek still hasn’t taken his hands off the wheel, but at least his knuckles aren’t bloodless white.

“Hey,” Stiles says in place of anything else, waits until Derek looks over because he never can help himself when Stiles wants his attention. He smiles encouragingly when Derek’s face isn’t totally shuttered.

Derek reaches out and presses two fingers to the bow of Stile’s mouth, slides them to the point of a cheekbone, around the shape of an ear, like he’s learning Stiles by touch. Like there’s anything unlearned left. “You should do that more,” he says.

Stiles snorts a little. “Dude, I smile all the time.”

Derek’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes get darker, bore into Stiles in a way that makes him shiver. “You don’t always mean it.”

There’s not a lot Stiles can think to say to that, and even less he thinks Derek would listen to. Instead he reaches out and snags the hand Derek’s using to treat Stiles like he’s made of Braille, wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrist and tugs it down. Derek’s pulse jumps against his fingers, tiny bones of his wrist under thin skin, all of it making Derek seem so much _less_ than he really is, the parts that don’t come close to the whole.

He turns his hand until their fingers mesh.

“You’re freaking out,” Stiles says, not a question. He squeezes when Derek goes to deny it. “No. You are. And as your—as your _brother_ , I wanna know why.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows when Derek glares at him in a way that clearly says _dirty pool_. Whatever, he can deal with it.

Finally Derek sighs, so deep it’s gotta equal all the air inside in the car, and he goes back to looking out at the house, still holding Stiles’ hand. For the first time, something like dread starts to grow tendrils out from the middle of Stiles’ chest. He probably should’ve thought about what he was expecting Derek to actually _say_.

That he’s realised screwing around with his underage brother is a disaster waiting to happen? That he’s hopped onboard the clue bus and noticed the number of eyes that track him in the halls at school, when he studies in the library or when he leans against the car waiting for Stiles. That he could have anyone he wanted, and the choice he’s been making so far really doesn’t make too much sense?

Stiles goes from zero to freaking out in less than thirty seconds, so when Derek finally says “John thinks I should start looking at colleges,” he doesn’t even hear it at first. Then once the words seep into his brain, the sharp tang of relief makes him slump back into the seat while Derek watches and frowns like Stiles is underselling his epic mangst.

“You fucker,” Stiles says, the words riding on a helpless bubble of a laugh. “I thought—ugh, never mind.” He shakes his head and squeezes Derek’s hand again, reassurance this time. “So, schools, huh?”

Derek’s mouth pinches. “I don’t—I haven’t decided anything yet,” he says, darts at look at Stiles like he needs to _see_ Stiles hear the words. “And I wouldn’t. Not without telling you.”

“I know,” Stiles says like _duh_. “It’s okay, y’know, you’re supposed to be planning for your future and all that stuff the principal harps about on the PA. It’s good.”

Derek nods, but his eyes are on their hands and there’s a line between his eyebrows, a twitch in his jaw. “It won’t change anything,” he says. “I won’t let it.”

Stiles believes him.

| |

“We could order in,” Stiles suggests when they finally make it inside. He leans against the counter and watches Derek lock the door. He does that, gets—not paranoid, exactly, but overprotective. Overcautious. Usually when it’s just him and Derek in the house. Stiles has never made fun of him for it or even really mentioned it, because sometimes he selfishly enjoys seeing Derek worry about him, and other times it just makes him feel too sad to _want_ to mention it.

“Pizza?” he asks when he’s got the phone in his hand, turns to rifle through a drawer for the right menu like Derek won’t pick the same thing he always picks. “We have cash, rig-”

He gets cut off when Derek fucking _stalks_ up to him, presses him back hard against the counter, and kisses him like the air in Stiles’ lungs is all that’s left in the world.

Stiles makes a high, shocked little noise, his brain shorting out. Then he’s surging forward and Derek’s pushing back, the phone’s clattering to the floor in what sounds like more than one piece, and Derek’s tongue is in his mouth.

The sound he makes then is really nothing short of obscene.

Something’s cracked inside his chest, loud and all-consuming like a branch breaking in the middle of silent trees, blood ringing in his ears and his heart beating hummingbird fast.

Derek’s making more noise than he is, tiny grunts when Stiles’ teeth find the swell of his lip, low moans when he draws Stiles’ tongue into his mouth and _sucks_.

He’s too big for his skin, pressed against Derek from his feet to near his neck. Reaching up under Derek’s shirt, urgency making him unsteady, Stiles spans his hand as wide as he can on the warm skin of Derek’s back, pressing against the tattoo that’d been the cause of the one and only full-on blowout _fight_ he’s ever seen Derek have with his dad. They’d stood either side of the dining table and shouted so loud it’d made Stiles’ hands shake, yelling about responsibility and how Stiles’ dad thought Derek could trust him with stuff, how Derek had a right to choose for himself. After Derek said something about Stiles’ dad not being _his_ dad, Stiles had gone upstairs and shut as many door between them as he could.

It’d been a shitshow, overall, but when Derek came upstairs and found Stiles on his bed with his back pressed tight to the wall and a book open in his lap he couldn’t even remember the title of, his face had totally _crumpled_ and he’d pulled Stiles into a hug so tight his ribs were creaking and all the air got squeezed out of his body.

He made Derek tell him about the tattoo then, after punching him in the shoulder as hard as his thirteen year-old fist could manage for not telling Stiles he was gonna go off to some studio and lie about his age. For keeping secrets when that’s not what brothers do. Derek just took the hit, then pulled off his shirt to show Stiles the three connected spirals, one flowing perfectly into the other, told him what it meant and how to him it was partly what he’d lost: his mom and his dad and his sister, and then what he’d gained: Stiles and his dad and himself. How it was _family_ , written in ink on his skin so he’d get to keep it.

Stiles kind of loves it, now. Maybe a lot. And even his dad’s come around, more or less. At least he’s stopped telling Derek to cover it up when they go to public pools in the summer.

He drags his nails down where he knows the lines of ink flow between Derek’s shoulders. Where the mark that equals _them_ is, and Derek growls into his mouth, hands skimming Stiles’ shirt up away from his waist, fingers gripping him like Stiles is actually trying to go anywhere.

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles says, barely enough space to form the words before he’s licking over the marks he’s left in Derek’s bottom lip. And then because he can’t help it, “Why now?”

“Maybe I’m sick of waiting,” Derek says on one shoved-out breath, punctuating it with his mouth sliding over Stiles’ until he opens up for it again, whines and doesn’t care that his voice cracks.

He can’t say he disagrees.

They never do get around to ordering the pizza.

| |

It takes all of five days for Stiles to decide that taking baby steps after the mother of all sexually frustrating – if not infuriating – build-ups is just plain stupid, and that making out on the couch in stolen hours when his dad isn’t around is just making it worse.

Rather than do the sane, sensible thing, like _talking_ about it, he figures the shortest distance from point A to getting laid is a straight line. The straight line here being him sucking Derek’s dick like he needs it to breathe.

His plans are nothing if not elegant in their simplicity. And sane and sensible is for people who aren’t underage and trying to sleep with their brother, so.

When his knees hit the carpet, Derek makes a sharp noise, hungry and pained like just looking at Stiles has drawn blood somewhere, cut him right where he’s weakest.

Stiles has got no idea what he’s doing, because there’s really no amount of porn or sucking on Derek’s fingers between making out on the couch that equals having a cock in his mouth. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, though. Hell no.

If he’d been expecting Derek to say they should wait, or maybe that they shouldn’t do this at all, then Stiles was seriously overestimating his control. The moment Stiles’ hands touch Derek’s thighs through the towel he’d wrapped around himself – and Stiles thinks he should get bonus planning points for going for Derek when he’s fresh from the shower – Derek’s pulling at the cotton and widening the space between his legs.

He’s hard already, but then so is Stiles. Dark hair that’s still damp runs from the delicate-looking bones of his ankles to the crease where his thighs join his hips, solid muscle and strength everywhere, his cock jutting up nearly against his stomach.

Stiles wets his lips, smirks a little when Derek’s dick twitches, and he’s breathing in the heavier, somehow obviously _older_ way Derek smells, even through the clean-damp cling of the shower. He groans at the thick and bitter taste, salty when Stiles’ tongue laps out over the head and Derek curses, abs twitching like he’s about to bend double.

It takes him a solid minute to find any kind of comfortable balance between breathing through his nose and relaxing his jaw, and he can’t take Derek that deep, but the feeling of it twists his gut and there’s a cooling wet patch where he’s leaking in his shorts.

He sucks hard with drool escaping down his chin, blotchy heat in his cheeks and tears sticking his lashes together, slick noises funnelling into his ears when he runs his tongue against the thick vein underneath, presses it into Derek’s slit and gets the tang of precome

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek groans like it was wrenched out of him, and the moment Stiles’ eyes meet Derek’s is the moment Derek comes.

It hits the back of his throat and slides over his tongue, trickles out the corner of his mouth and down his chin when he’s can’t swallow fast enough. Just the thought of Derek being inside him like that makes him a little crazy, sucking on the still mostly-hard length of Derek’s dick like he can get more that way, lips hot and swollen, used.

Barely a few seconds slip by before Derek hauls Stiles up into his lap like he weighs nothing, kisses him hard and deep, basically licking the taste of himself out from the tiny gaps between Stiles’ teeth, and Stiles just moans and opens his mouth wider even though his jaw’s aching, begging even if he can’t form the words.

His hips move without him telling them to, the bare amount of friction against Derek’s stomach enough to make him leak more precome that rolls in slick beads down the length of his dick and drop onto Derek’s thighs.

“Touch yourself,” Derek says right against Stiles’ mouth, biting at his bottom lip and _pulling_ in a way that really shouldn’t get his cock twitching but totally does anyway. “You always look so good jerking off for me.”

Stiles shudders in Derek’s lap, can’t get his hand between them fast enough. It’s not like either of them can really see anything like this, both of them panting and trading kisses like secret brands against each other’s lips, wet and sloppy and _perfect_. He can’t even really jerk himself, but he’s so tightly wound, so coiled up inside, and he knows it’s not gonna take much. Not when he can still taste Derek’s come in his throat, the weight of his dick on Stiles’ tongue.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, and his voice is this low shudder that works into Stiles’ bones, tumbles down his spine and into his hips. “You can—I want you to come on me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” bursts out of Stiles’ mouth, sends his head thumping onto Derek’s shoulder, hand working himself once, twice more before he’s twitching and shooting against the plane of Derek’s belly, spilling over his fingers onto Derek’s skin, his lips moving soundless and open against the hot skin of Derek’s neck, cries backing up inside his throat.

Derek shushes him, sounds so earnest and gentle over the pounding rush of blood in Stiles’ ears. His hands move up and down Stiles’ back, fingers slotting into the spaces between his ribs. Stiles feels him press a kiss to his temple, and smiles loose and uncoordinated when Derek breathes him in.

He’ll have to move soon, before he gets too heavy, because he knows Derek will just let him stay there and not say a word as his legs slowly go numb. He’s lucky Stiles is in love with him, the hopeless masochist.

That thought doesn’t scare him now, doesn’t even surprise him. It lives with him inside his skin, just another fact, like Derek is fact or his dad, or Scott. The balance of parts that make him up, and so much of it is that burning, wanting, always roiling _love_ , the solid certainty that he’d pull down the world to protect it.

He figures he can be forgiven the lack of awareness about that. Or the admission of awareness, really. You don’t notice your heart beating all the time do you? Or the blink of your eyes, the swell of your lungs?

Some things just _are_.

| |

The first time Derek gets his fingers inside him, Stiles thinks he passes out.

There’s come drying on his stomach and bruises blooming up around teeth marks on his hipbones, but he’s hard enough to cut glass and his eyes are clenched so tight he’s seeing spots.

“Relax,” Derek says, and then destroys any chance of that happening by wriggling his fingers even deeper.

Stiles’ dick slaps against his belly, and he’s come _twice_ , can’t even tell what side of the pain/pleasure line he’s on anymore, just the full stretch of Derek’s fingers tethering him to his own body.

No way should two fingers feel so intense, but Stiles is shaking and sweating through the sheets, his feet up on Derek’s back where Derek’s lying between his legs, watching Stiles’ ass stretch and clench over and over around him.

Derek goes for the spot inside him that makes him sob, makes him shove his hips down into the pressure and bite his tongue to keep from mewling. It’s not even an occasional glance of pressure; he rolls the pads of his fingers over it hard enough for Stiles’ eyes to roll into his head, dick jerking and leaking everywhere.

He thinks he says Derek’s name, or maybe something that was supposed to be Derek’s name, but then Derek’s spreading his fingers wider and leaning down, the hot-wet living press of his _tongue_ moving between them, around and inside and Stiles is gone, swallowed by white noise and the feeble trickle of come that burbles out of his slit.

When he comes back to himself, Derek’s kneeling up between his legs, spread awkwardly like Derek had done it for him, jerking his dick with fingers still shiny from the lube he’d pushed up into Stiles.

Stiles blinks hazily and groans with a ruined throat when Derek throws his head back and comes on Stiles’ chest, on his dick, feels it run down to the sheets.

Derek drops down neck to him, hand turning Stiles by the chin towards him, eating at his mouth before he leans their foreheads together, hair sweat-damp and cool on Stiles fever-hot cheek.

| |

Derek doesn’t mention the schools thing again. He’s not quieter, or more withdrawn or anything that’d set alarm bells ringing in Stiles’ head. It’s the opposite, if he’s honest.

He wakes up with Derek in his bed, their legs slotted together and the weight of Derek’s thigh against his hip, Derek’s breath on his skin. Or he just outright slips into Derek’s bed with him the moment there’s a closed door between their room and the hallway.

They wake up early some mornings, Derek rolling until Stiles is underneath him, shoving up into the weight of Derek’s body while Derek presses down, their dicks hard and rubbing together until Derek comes in a hot rush with his teeth scraping at the skin of Stiles’ shoulder.

He’ll move down the bed and lick his come off of Stiles’ chest, tongue wet and a little rough on the hair below Stiles’ belly button. Stiles will already be squirming by the time he sucks the head of Stiles’ cock between his lips, grumbling approval when Stiles’ hands thread into his hair and tug hard enough to hurt, holding himself still enough for Stiles to fuck his mouth until he comes, Derek swallowing and swallowing around him.

Stiles leans against the tile in the shower while Derek runs soapy hands across his body, down to his ass close enough to his hole to make him shiver. Sometimes he’ll tilt Stiles’ head up into the spray and kiss him, water moving around the slippery press of Derek’s lips on his.

Mornings are way less unpleasant when you get woken up like that, even if they are late for school every now and then.

| |

Nobody should be surprised that it doesn’t take long for Stiles to be urging Derek for more.

“Derek, I swear, if you don’t actually fuck me right now I’ll—I’ll—I dunno what I’ll do,” Stiles groans, flopping down onto the mattress and curling a fist in the sheets. “But you won’t like it.”

He’d be more patient, but since when has that been his style? And he can’t be blamed if weeks of Derek fingering him and rimming him until he cries or comes or both have him itching for the main event. Derek really has brought it on himself.

Derek stares down at him with that stare that burrows through Stiles’ skin and bones, down to whatever’s in the centre that makes him who he is.

“I’m sure,” he says, before Derek can ask. “I’m so, so sure, okay? As if I’d lie about this?”

When Derek leans over him a little more, Stiles meets his mouth and kisses him like he can physically transmit how much he wants this, how much he _needs_ Derek to give it to him. Because neither of them are any good at saying what actually matters, but this… they’ve always been so good at this.

“You should probably roll over,” Derek murmurs, the shape of the words pressed at the edges of Stiles’ lips.

“No,” he says, takes some of the sharpness out of it with another kiss. “I want—I should get to look at you, this time.”

The next kiss is harder, more—just _more_ , and Stiles groans when Derek’s hand pushes his thigh wider, fingers still wet with lube sliding back between his cheeks, where he’s already wet and sensitive, open.

Stiles arches into the solid heat of Derek’s body when two fingers wriggle and press into him, going right for his prostate and rolling over it, back out and then in again, harder.

“Fuck,” he sighs out, turns his face into Derek’s neck, and the angle has to be uncomfortable for Derek’s wrist, but he’s not moving away, just breathing hard and loud almost right into Stiles’ ear, the occasional catch of his eyes on Stiles’.

The stretch of his insides burns a little when Derek works a third finger into him, but it doesn’t last, they’ve got this down by now, and Stiles knows how to open for it, how to relax and move into the push of Derek’s fingers.  

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek breathes onto his skin, and Stiles tries to nod even if he can’t really control himself that well right now.

“Do it,” he says, and his voice cracks clean in half. “Please, Derek.”

Derek hauls himself up, fingers still twisting and spreading in Stiles’ ass, and god, his _face_ , he looks like he’s the one being taken apart. Stiles suddenly gets hit with how much _power_ he really has here, maybe always has, and the affection that goes with it nearly drowns him.

“Please,” he says again, even though he doesn’t need to.

Derek’s fingers slip out of him, leave him open and so fucking _empty_ , hands moving Stiles’ thighs enough that he can kneel between them. Stiles just barely manages to move his hips up when Derek stuffs a pillow under them, hisses through his teeth when his cock rubs over his stomach, through the precome that’s shining on his skin.

“Breathe,” Derek says, black eating up his eyes, and Stiles watches him slick his cock, press even closer, and then he can _feel_ himself stretching around the head, the bare heat of Derek’s dick, his body parting for it.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, and then again, and again, because it’s so _much_ , suddenly, even though he told himself he could handle it. It feels like he’s gonna fly apart, like he’s not solid enough and Derek’s gonna cleave him into pieces.

He can feel how tight he is, how much he’s squeezing around Derek’s cock, the sensation going back and forth and back again until he doesn’t know who’s feeling what or how to force air into his lungs.

Even though Derek’s not all the way inside, and he’s hardly moving, Stiles feels like he’s swallowing around him, like his body’s contracting, shrinking.

“ _Breathe_ ,” he hears Derek say again, and he feels his ribs expand, his lungs filling up. He thinks if he tried, he could feel every last cell, all the places he’s connected to Derek.

Derek’s fingers flex around the soft inside of Stiles’ thigh, keeping him wide and open, then his hips move, and all that air can’t find room in Stiles’ body, flows out past his lips on a low, mangled groan.

The sheets slip out from under Stiles’ fingers, the lead weight of his arm that he forces up until his hand finds the skin of Derek’s chest, nails leaving lines behind as Derek hisses.

“I’m okay,” he says, and his voice is totally _wrecked_ , all splinters and pointed edges, but Derek moans like he’s being twisted apart and pushes in deeper, his balls against Stiles’ and his fingers bruising on Stiles’ thighs.

He’s blinking back the itch of tears by the time Derek’s all the way inside, forcing his eyes to stay wide and watch the way Derek moves, watching himself get _fucked_.

There’s so much on Derek’s face, the bitten-pink slackness of his mouth and the endless, heated dark in his eyes, the tension trembling in every muscle from how he’s so obviously fighting back the urge to move.

Stiles bears down and rolls his hips, mouth falling open when Derek’s dick stretches him that tiny amount wider, skims over his prostate and makes liquid heat fill his belly, spread into his veins and throb inside his head.

It’s a barely-there pace, but Derek’s grinding down into him, deep enough that the edge of pain keeps catching him, flaring sparks behind his eyes and more precome leaking from his slit.

He makes a harsh sob when Derek’s fingers leave his thigh and wrap around his cock, slowly twist down the length and back up again. He’s already on the edge of hyperventilating, all his muscles tight and straining, and when Derek’s fingernails rub down the underside of the head he just _snaps_ , all that tension releasing at once.

Roaring noise that could be his blood or could be him screaming outside his body, yelling as his dick pulses and pulses and soaks him with his own come, trails of it running down his sides to the bed, the phantom pressure of Derek’s palm just resting on him, feeling every jerk as his balls pull tight to his body.

Derek drops down almost on top of him, and Stiles can feels Derek swelling, his rolling thrusts turning ragged and twitchy, tries to grip down harder even over the spasming jerks that’re rolling up his entire body. Derek curses and shudders as he comes, his mouth slamming onto Stiles’, all rough teeth and tongue as he empties into Stiles’ body, and if Stiles could come again right then he probably already would have, maybe more than once.

It feels—it more than _feels_. The world’s been blown to shards and all that’s left anywhere is the burning island of the too-small bed and Derek’s weight on him, covering him and holding him, stopping him from drifting away like ash on a breeze. He can’t tell if his eyes are even open, and under his mouth is Derek’s skin, breath hot against the shell of his ear. Stiles thinks he could never move again, could grow roots and become a part of Derek and the place they’ve carved out of a family that makes no sense but works anyway, and he’s never wanted anything as badly in his life.

Eventually Derek rolls to the side, his cock slipping free and Stiles grimacing at the feeling of come as it runs down the insides of his thighs, the gapingly _empty_ way he feels, hollow and spent.

He turns into the shape of Derek’s arms around him, for once glad he’s not too tall to get their legs tangled up and his head under Derek’s chin.

By the time Derek’s got it together enough to say he’ll make sure they get up and shower before his dad comes home, Stiles is most of the way asleep.

| |

In the end, it’s Stiles’ dad that gingerly steps out onto the thin ice of Derek’s post-high school plans.

Stiles freezes with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth, trying to look like he’s not gauging Derek’s reaction from the corner of his eye.

The bigger surprise is when Derek _doesn’t_ shut down, starts talking about how he’s been thinking of staying local, and working his way towards a job as a deputy in the Sheriff’s department.

Stiles is pretty sure the only reason he doesn’t look surprised is because _nobody_ could look surprised compared to his dad right then. That and he’s tripped over pamphlets about degrees in criminology more than once, college application forms left in the least subtle form of plain sight ever. They really need to work on Derek’s definition of explaining things, even if they’re both a few steps to the left of ‘normal’ when it comes to that.

The raised eyebrow and tilted head look slowly turns into something softer on his dad’s face, pleased and proud and maybe with his eyes a little bright. Derek sits taller at the table, fiddles nervously with his empty plate. He doesn’t say anything about how Stiles will have his license by the time he’s ready to leave, or how he’s actually letting himself spend money on an apartment that’s not exactly spacious, but at least has a bed made for two people of their size and no parents sleeping on the other side of the walls.

Stiles hooks his foot around his brother’s ankle, golden warmth under every square inch of his skin. He listens to his dad talking about people he knows whose numbers he’ll give to Derek, about maybe getting him some kind of volunteer position at the station. More importantly, he can _feel_ the buzzing happiness as it zips around the table between them.

The smile won’t stay off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A. A. Bondy

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Rapture, sweet rapture (won't you put your hands on me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/802334) by [heardtheowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heardtheowl/pseuds/heardtheowl), [queerly_it_is](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is)




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